The Morakestra

Once upon a time a set of twins, Will and David Mora, were born and raised in a Mexican border town to a Czech/Gypsy mother and a Mexican/Belgian father via artificial insemination from aliens who’d surreptitiously kidnapped the couple from their home one evening during a passing Earth visit to get a bag of cheeseburgers and onion rings. Onion rings to these aliens is the equivalent of alcohol to humans, you see, so the aliens abducted the couple for a night of raucous fun, hence the “accidental” impregnation for which the visiting aliens were roundly scolded by alien elders back home.

While growing up the twins were subjected to nothing but ear splitting opera by their mother, while their father was a headbanger and he, in turn, pumped up the volume even more for the two. Little did they know, but the twins’ thought processes were damaged beyond repair by this assault of music, which was totally forbidden on the alien planet from which they’re from. They’d never be the same.

The Mora twins spoke their “own” peculiar language the first ten years of their life. Today, even thought fluent in over 37 languages, they speak in short clipped fragments, finishing each others sentences. Very few people can actually communicate with them, so they prefer to speak to everyone through an appointed spokesperson (an alien cousin, unbeknownst to them, a famous linguist and assassin from their home planet who was specifically sent to Earth to help and protect the boys on their journey).

One day, while in their teens, a passing airplane accidentally dumped part of its cargo, or so the story goes, in the airspace over the Mora household. Two electric guitars, still in their flightcases, stenciled with the name Lowell George, crashed through the roof into the twins’ bedroom. David and Will grew curious, then gobsmacked with these instruments as, again, unbeknownst to them, the sound of a guitar is eerily similar to the voice of (unpronounceable in English), the most famous and beloved pet from their homeland. They kept the guitars which brought on this satisfying feeling of belonging; Lowell’s loss their good fortune way they saw it.

The guitars didn’t come with an instruction book, but the two began to not so slowly figure things out for themselves, beginning with creating and inventing their own style of tuning, and for the next ten years the two sat across from each other in their bedroom diabolically shredding. After figuring out how to make sounds that pleased them they began to compose their own songs “duel style”, sitting across from the other, trying their best to outdo the other with speed, precision, and sick, twisted harmony, their telepathy enabling them to compose “on the fly”, nothing written or recorded, all stored in the special storage repositories of their alien minds.

One day, without prior notification, Satan (the same fallen angel who met with Robert Johnson and Pagininni) came a-knockin’ and offered the boys a contract right on the spot. They very impolitely refused and proceeded to fart in Satan’s general direction until he left, completely deMORAlized.

In their early twenties, wanting to meet chicks and spread their alien seed, the Moras decided to take the music from the bedroom and expose it to the world and set out for two different recording studios in the El Paso area (whom we shall leave nameless for reasons of the obvious).

One studio owner told them they were both insane, they needed to learn to tune properly, and they needed to rewrite all the songs as the tunes were ALL WRONG, COMPLETELY WRONG! The Moras left the studio in disgust, farting in his general direction, causing the man’s head began to mysteriously swell until it exploded. The twins were impressed by the man’s ability to do so, but left the building anyway without recording a note.

The next studio owner was frightened by what he heard, so much so, he called then Attorney General Gonzales on his private line and instructed him to send in the SEALS and a local SWAT Team to protect him from two maniacs wielding guitars in his office, but not before offering them a publishing deal where he’d get half the writers and all the publishing royalties. The boys, again, farted in his general direction before the troops swooped in, and when they did, they found a headless man still seated at his desk clutching a pen and a set of contracts, the walls fare you well spackled with gooey grey matter, bone and hair.

Not giving up, seeking others of “their kind” who would understand their music, the Moras traveled to Austin in search of none other than Willie Nelson (a transplanted alien, also).

In turn, through a series of top secret meetings between the Nelson Family and some elders from the alien planet (who pointedly abstained from any onion rings), it was decided that local musical adventurers and impresarios, Dony Wynn and Boo MacLeod, should be in charge of helping the boys record their music, correctly deducing, as they did, that no one on Earth would quite understand the boys music as well as Dony and Boo would.

Both the Nelson Family and the alien elders’ wisdom was spot on, and during the recording process at Willie’s personal studio, Pedernales, where many a Poodie’s Hilltop burger was consumed, lots of onion rings, too, The Morakestra was born.

Earth will never be the same. Nor will all the young women the Moras are about to meet because of the music they’ve concocted. And there’s nothing that Tommy Lee Jones or Will Smith can do about this pair. Seed of all sorts will be planted.

Earthlings? Submit with abandon and glee, for The Morakestra hath arrived.